It's been a long time since I have gone there. That dot of civilization surrounded by
nothing but barely touched tumble weeds and flat dry heat. Palmdale. Growing up, I
never recognized anything beyond fast-food, Slurpees, and the tract homes that told us we
weren't in the bad parts of town. Historical sites named after historical people were only
places where I could hide out from school and apply more lipstick. But who was this
lipstick for? And who was this historical person they named these rocks for? Many of us
never knew. He was probably some dark-skinned bandit who was wilfully forgotten by
the squad of rednecks who runs the town. Out beyond the shopping mall, mini-malls,
trailer parks, and big big buildings (later learned to be the big big defense industry), south
of the numerous mountain shadows and poppies, was a giant city. Los Angeles. The
place where everyone worked. Spent hours driving to work. Driving home. Home to the
cheaply bought two-story house with pets and nice neighbors and an alarm system.

If they weren't caught in stop-and-go traffic, on their way to L.A., they were stuck turning
the wheels of local bureaucracy. Shoveling out weapons and airplanes that were worth
more than the whole town...people would wait all day with American flags sagging from
their car windows, hoping to see the Stealth Bomber fly by during a test run. Those who
didn't work at all were hidden away somewhere--cheap motels, trailer parks--stuffed full
of crystal meth. And their kids were hidden away too--with crystal meth, acid, pills, and
booze at their disposal. Palmdale. The conservative place. Where people run away to to
make their babies, searching for a safe place with pure morals. Plenty of churches and
Seven-Elevens on every avenue.

For eighteen years I watched it all happen, and somehow managed to deny it as being real.
A lot of people stay, with their dusty dry mouths and wind washed skin. I find it tragic
and funny. But I am alright now. Really, I am.